


That Awkward Moment

by Mei (Mei_Hitokiri)



Series: Awkwardly in Love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkwardness, M/M, Making Out, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mei_Hitokiri/pseuds/Mei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That awkward moment when Sherlock visits his brother and Lestrade answers the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Awkward Moment

**That Awkward Moment**

****  
  


“We need a car.” John physically jumped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, spilling scalding tea over his hand in the process. He hissed in pain. “No. Scratch that, we need a plane.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” The man in question opened his eyes and peered at John from over the top of his steepled fingers.

“What?” John turned on the cold tap and let the cold water soothe the burn.

“You haven’t spoken or moved in nearly six hours. You had to choose the exact moment I had scalding tea in my hand to scare me half to death.” Sherlock pouted.

“How was I to know you had tea in your hand?” John sighed irritably.

“You could open your eyes before speaking, you know. You don’t have to just blurt out everything that you think.” John pulled the injured hand from under the tap and examined the reddened skin. He glared angrily at Sherlock. “Call Mycroft; I’m sure he has several you can borrow.” Sherlock curled his legs up underneath his body and pouted at John.

“I don’t want to call Mycroft. You call him.” Deciding his skin wasn’t severely injured John dried it off. He pivoted on the ball of his right foot and the heel of his left (a habit picked up from his drill training that he’d never lost) and stalked over to his flatmate.

 

John knew he was far from the most imposing frame ever cut, but he more than made up for that with his presence. He seemed, to Sherlock, to fill the room. No corner or crevice was left untouched, every space was permeated with John as he prowled. Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest as John leaned forward into his personal space. With both hands on the back of the sofa, John closed the gap between them until their noses touched. Underneath his slightly-too-small t-shirt the shape of his tensing shoulders could be clearly seen. With each breath he took they would flex and ripple in a display of raw power and masculinity. Sherlock’s mouth went utterly dry.

“If you want to speak to Mycroft, then you, not I, will call him.” John’s voice was little more than a low rumble in his chest, a bass growl that was saturated with confidence in his authority. He leaned back to hold Sherlock’s gaze. “Do I make myself clear?” All Sherlock could do was groan, and nod his head. John leaned back down for a single, bruising kiss before he grabbed his coat and left the flat.

 

Immediately the door had closed Sherlock scrambled for his phone.

**Ngh. Not fair. S x**

He could just imagine John’s evil grin as he went about whatever it was he did.

**Call your brother. J x**

Sherlock pouted.

**Don’t want to. Prefer texting. S x**

**You prefer sexting, actually, but I doubt you’re going to do that with Mycroft ;) J x**

Sherlock grinned and rolled off the sofa. He was thinking that maybe he’d go and have a lie down and call John. That would inevitably lead to him needing a shower, after which he might go and speak to his brother.

**Speaking of which… S x**

 

A good hour and a half later, Sherlock had just finished getting dressed. John had been rather imaginative on the phone, and he’d required rather a longer shower than usual. He ran a hand through his tangled curls in lieu of a comb and tied his scarf around his neck. His coat went on next, collar turned up, and he stepped onto Baker Street. A quick yell and he found himself comfortably seated (or as close to as possible) in the back of a taxi. He briefly debated with the idea of texting Mycroft to inform him of his imminent arrival, but decided the look on his face to have his brother turn up on his doorstep would be much more satisfying.

 

The taxi pulled up and Sherlock paid him his fare; he would insist on taking Mycroft’s car back to 221B. Mycroft lived in a penthouse apartment in the borough of Hammersmith. In all honesty, it couldn’t really be counted as an apartment considering Mycroft’s was the only one in the building. Entrance to the building was by bio-scanner only, and the lift up to the fourth floor, where Mycroft had chosen to have the front door, was also restricted in the same manner. Sherlock travelled up without incident and knocked twice on the chrome and cream door. There was a moment’s pause, then a deep sigh and the sound of somebody padding across the floor. Unusual for Mycroft to be without shoes on. Stressful day, he deduced. Was he planning another coup, or rigging elections? These were dismissed as too mundane. Terrorist cell? Better, but not good enough. What, then… Oh. Of course. The latch clicked and the handle turned. Without looking up from his phone (Really, John, that must be a physical impossibility. Though he was certainly willing to try it.) Sherlock threw in his comment.

“More compromising pictures of important people, Mycroft? I thought you would have learned your lesson last time?”

“Oh shit.” Sherlock’s head snapped up with such force it was a surprise he didn’t get whiplash. That wasn’t Mycroft. That _definitely_ wasn’t Mycroft. Sherlock scowled, in an attempt to mask his shock. The man that stood before him was shirtless, and bore the rather tell-tale signs of a heavy make out session. His lips were full, swollen and a dark shade of red. His hair was tousled, his pupils blown, his breathing rate elevated. He was also shifting uncomfortably on the spot, hands trying –and failing – to subtlely cover his crotch.

 

Sherlock didn’t have too great a problem with his brother taking lovers. Mycroft had brought his first one home aged nineteen. What Sherlock did have an issue with; a serious issue with, was the fact that he hadn’t deduced as such. Especially when his brother’s lover was none other than Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

 

“Gregory?  Who is it?” Mycroft was calling from the living room; Sherlock knew the layout of his brother’s apartment well enough to be able to work that one out. Greg didn’t answer, just stood there with his mouth bobbing in a manner reminiscent of a fish. Sherlock found his composure first, throwing the door open and stalking to where he knew his brother would be.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” The rage in Sherlock’s tone was enough to make Mycroft, who had his back to him, flinch. Within the second the elder man was on his feet, facing the enraged man.

“I was engaging in intimate contact with my long-term partner, Sherlock. There’s no need to be alarmed. I can assure you that Gregory and I have not engaged in anything you and John haven’t.” Sherlock sputtered indignantly. Mycroft brushed past him to where a shocked Greg still stood at the door. He took his hand and led him back to the sofa, kissing him sweetly as they sat. Sherlock made a completely undignified gurgling noise.

“How… how did I not know?!” Mycroft chuckled.

“We were discreet. Nothing more, nothing less.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

 

Now that he was looking for it he could see all the signs; they were glaringly obvious! It was only now that he registered Mycroft’s appearance. He had obviously come home from work and had gotten straight into ravishing his partner. His coat and jacket were draped across the back of one of the plus leather chairs, his umbrella propped up against it, and his shoes on the floor next to it. His waistcoat had been thrown haphazardly into the chair’s seat, followed rapidly by his tie. The pocket watch and cufflinks had been delicately, though hurriedly placed on the coffee table. Mycroft's shirt was balled on the floor next to the sofa.  The sofa itself bore two elongated but thinner indents and one of inverse dimensions. No doubt one of them (Lestrade, that’s why he’d answered the door, his brain supplied) had been kneeling over the other. That meant Lestrade had been ravishing his brother. Back to Mycroft, the man stood in socks, uncomfortably tight trousers and an undershirt. That particular garment had been untucked, though when he moved it rode up just enough to give a flash of reddened skin. His mind flew through these facts, deducing in a matter of seconds _exactly_ what they had been up to, down to the very last touch.

“STOP IT!! Stop! My _eyes_!!” Sherlock was bolting out of the door before anybody could react. He was half way down the road when he called John, screaming down the phone at his confused lover. John, for his part, took the news well and had Sherlock calm enough to flag a taxi in under ten minutes.

 

It was Greg who convinced Mycroft that he needed to call his brother; after all, he did have to work with the younger genius. Mycroft had merely pouted and pointed out that the look on his brother’s face must have compensated. Greg had threatened the withdrawal of sex. Mycroft had caved immediately and without further argument. Both John and Mycroft recounted to him how Sherlock had basically listed all the places they’d had sex, before demanding unlimited usage of Mycroft’s private jet. He had acquiesced, if only to save his partner more trouble. Mycroft noted with some humour that Sherlock had missed out Greg’s desk in his otherwise exhaustive list.

 

Three days later, Mycroft and Greg received an anonymous letter. ‘Stop having sex in his office.’ was all it said.


End file.
